


Reprehensible

by Not_Safe_For_Woof



Category: Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Cartoon 2018), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Just a lot of pining in general tbh, M/M, One-sided pining, Turtlecest (TMNT)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28352754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_Safe_For_Woof/pseuds/Not_Safe_For_Woof
Summary: Donatello can't help stealing from his little brother, even if he knows it's wrong.
Relationships: Donatello/Michelangelo (TMNT)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 29





	Reprehensible

Donatello is careful with his choices. When he chooses to take, what he chooses to take, and when he chooses to silently place it back where he found it. Comics are the highest treasures, but the most difficult to procure. Every issue seems to have Michelangelo's soul woven into the pages. His scent is the most obvious thing of course. But he can see where Mikey has dog eared the pages, which makes it clear what scenes or pieces of dialogue are most important to him. And seeing what speaks to his brother is a knowledge Donatello craves more than any other.

But he's careful. He only keeps single issues for hours. If that. Because Michelangelo reads them like a ritual and which one he might pick out is random each day. No, other things are much, much safer. Small things usually, because Mikey's ADHD means he's misplacing things constantly and the small ones are the most likely to get lost both in the cracks of couch cushions and the cracks of his mind. 

The little nick nacks he orders online or finds at the dump Don can pretty much just keep. And though they're cute, and remind Don so distinctly of Mikey's colorful, carefree nature. They don't often keep a hold of him. Not his scent, or his soul. 

The tiny, detail paintbrushes are better. Mikey holds them, and fiddles with them, and sometimes chews on them. And they smell exactly like Mikey does when comes out of his room (his studio) right after he's done painting. Canvas, paint, and sweat. 

The issue is. Donatello has a collection of those now. A little drawer nearly filled with little brushes. And that makes him face two things. Two scary things that make him go all tense and make it so it's hard for him to focus on any of the important projects he's been slaving away at recently. 

One. He has a problem. At first, he thinks he’s developing some form of kleptomania. Just needing to take to feel a rush. That would be an issue but one he could talk about and analyze and find a solution for. But now. Now it's all too clear he's only taking Mikey's stuff. 

He tried to rationalize it at first. His brain always did that. Find a solution that made sense. Mikey would feel the most betrayed and that risk invited the most rush. But now the details were important. The scent. The fingerprints. He was applying value to each object. Like a weird set of Mikey points. And that isn't rational in the slightest. No way to justify it as something purely based on psychology. It was no defection of his overtired, overactive brain. 

No, this strange new hobby was based on emotion, and emotions were by nature the opposite of rational. By admitting that it becomes impossible to deny the real issue. There was something there. An attraction. An obsession. Something that clearly isn't healthy. Whatever this emotional fixation was circled around his mind like a car doing donuts. Just as wild and dangerous.

What was worse though. What was more dangerous. What made him get worried and shaky every time Mikey "happened to misplace" something. Was the second thing. It was only a matter of time before he messed up. Before he took too much. Before he grabbed the wrong thing. Someone would find out. Maybe not Michelangelo, but one of his brothers, and if any of them discovered it there would be questions. Questions he either didn't have the answer to or ones with answers that he didn't want to give.

Unfortunately, because of those two horrendous realizations. He's jumpy. And Mikey with all his emotional clarity easily picks up on that. He starts bursting in on Don unannounced as if he's hoping to find exactly what he's so anxious to hide. 

"Donnie!" Mikey throws the door open today. Too close for Don's comfort. He has to slam his small drawer of small brushes. And makes a half eep sound as he scoots his rolly chair back over to his large multi-monitor computer.

"Mikeyyyyyy!" Don taps out a quick nervous drum beat as he tries to figure out how to follow up his brother's name. "Whaaaaaaaa tuhhhp?" It sounds too casual, too silly for him. Is he blushing? God his face feels hot. Just. Stare at the screen. He won't notice. 

Only Mikey rolls right up to him on another spinny chair. Because of course he does. It's Mikey. Clingy, lovey, cuddly Mikey. He leans in, resting his head along Don's upper arm, scanning his computer to see what he's doing. So not only had Donnie done something stupidly wrong like fall for one of his brothers, he'd done it up big. Falling for the one who'd it would be hardest to keep from. 

Mikey is distracted by the blue wire model of Donnie's newest creation for about thirty seconds. Before he notices his brother tensing at the casual touch, and lifts his head frowning. "You okay? I'm not hurting you am I?" 

"Uh..." fuck fuck fuck. His brain is misfiring. He can only think about how impossibly warm his face is, about the fact that Michelangelo looks so cute when worried, about a million other useless things that aren't a good response to his brother's question. 

And Mikey, being the concerned little brother he is, reaches up and slowly, carefully feels along Donatello's forehead. "You feel warm... how much sleep have you been getting?" 

The gentle touch, the concern in his eyes and voice, the slight frowning pout on his lips. It all made it worse. Just made him warmer, more clammy, and less able to form sensible words. He didn't realize it was already this bad. That simple things would affect him this much. He takes a deep breath, and that helps a little. He unclamps his fingers from his desk and taps them along the painted wood. "I'm good." It comes out way more collected than he feels and that bolsters his confidence. "I've just been staring at this computer screen for so long that I can feel my nerve cells short-circuiting." 

It's a pretty blatant lie. He'd just been looking into his collection, peering into a metal drawer several feet away from his monitors. But Mikey is merciful and doesn't bring that up. Or maybe he didn't see him rolling his chair back. Hopefully that one.

"Well, you should take a break then, dude. It's getting late anyway. Oh! I know! I can make you some chamomile. That'll help you relax and probably send you right to sleep." Mikey gesticulated as he spoke, his lips finally tugging up into a smile now that he'd figured out a way to help his brother. 

Which only made him feel worse. If only Michelangelo knew the thoughts on his mind. If only he knew Donnie had been *stealing* from him. At least there was a clear answer to stop the twisting in his gut now. He'd sleep. He'd go along with Michelangelo. No more worrying from his brother. No more tense anxiety from his own body. "Okay, Mikey let me just... finish this last thing. You can make tea while I do that? And then I'll be good and sleep." 

For a moment it seems Mikey is going to be insistent that he lay down right now, (Donnie was bad about that. Saying he'd sleep and then staying up an extra two hours to finish a project) but apparently he decides it's better to compromise for now. So he nods and marches off to go make tea. 

As soon as he's out of earshot, Donnie slides back over. Brushes have been thrown every which way and he takes a full minute to fully organize them back into place, smallest to largest. Then he slowly closes the drawer and begins closing programs on his computer. He'd been pretty much done with the blueprint he'd been working on anyway. Just a few tweaks he needed to make tomorrow and then the new creation would be set to build and test. 

He leans back to stretch, and as if on cue Mikey comes sauntering back in with two cups of chamomile. He hands one to Donnie and takes a gentle sip from his own steaming mug. 

Donatello follows suit, turning his chair so he can engage with his brother. He starts to speak, but the way Mikey is staring at him all satisfied and happy nearly makes him choke on his drink. He covers it, thank god, with only a little cough. But this is getting bad. If he can't even interact with his little brother what was he going to do when they needed to train. Or fight real enemies for that matter. 

"Is it good?"

"Oh! Yeah! It's great! You did uh... really great." He stares at the tea because _apparently,_ he can't look at his brother anymore. He watches it steam from the little mug, and a small smile slips onto his lips. He wasn't lying or just blinded by his affection. Mikey made the best goddamn tea in their little family. 

"Good!" He could hear the beaming in that one word. "This stuff is gonna knock me out too so I better get to bed. Just make sure you actually sleep too. Don't just turn the computer back on."

"I won't. I won't." That little admonishment at least got him mostly back on the brother track. Him being lectured on properly taking care of himself always felt... familial. Maybe it was because everyone did it. 

That reminder at least got him through the hug. He just gave a quick one right back, the habit making the action more robotic than terrapin. The "Goodnight, I love you." Tripped him up again though. He returned it, but with a little stutter and a cough. 

Luckily Mikey was tired at that point and didn't have more worry to spare when he was heading out the door and letting out long yawns. "Don't choke on your tea, bro!" He calls over his shoulder as he closes the door, leaving Donatello alone with his thoughts, and his little drawer of little brushes, once again. 


End file.
